


When in Rome

by ginnyred



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Ancient Rome, Gen, Historical References, Pre-Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-22
Updated: 2018-10-22
Packaged: 2019-08-06 00:00:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16377560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ginnyred/pseuds/ginnyred
Summary: “If – hic – if I didn't know you asssss well assssss I do,angel,” Crowley slurred. Hissed? It was hard to tell sometimes. “I – hic – I'd ssssssay you were trying to get me drunk.”Aziraphale was wearing his best poker face – even though poker was still a millennium and several centuries away from being invented.“And what makes you think that?”This is the story of that time in Rome in 64 AD.





	When in Rome

Two things are usually remembered about the Great Fire of Rome:

1) It started somewhere around the Circus Maximus, and spread from there;

2) No one was inspired by the fire to compose songs about the Fall of Troy – even though it sounds just like the kind of thing Nero would have done, if only he had thought about it first.

Both of these statements are true, certainly, but all current reconstructions of the events pertaining to the Great Fire are tragically lacking. It's not the historians' fault, they just have no way of knowing The Facts. The really relevant ones, that is.

Like how the demon Crowley was cross-eyed drunk that night.

… Actually, the whole thing started several days before, at the tavern.

*

“You've been here since _when?_ No way! I've never even seen you.”

“Been living in the wrong part of town then, angel. Not where Things Are Happening.”

Aziraphale smiled condescendingly with his usual air of self-importance.

“Plenty is happening in Vallis Murcia, actually. If you're paying enough attention, that is.” He rolled the dice and got three sixes. “I win!”

The angel ignored Crowley's sceptical eyebrow and took all of his remaining coins. 

“Okay, so,” Aziraphale seemed to hesitate for a moment. He twirled a golden strand of hair around his finger then shrugged. “The Empire _is_ your fault, right? We've been wondering.”

Crowley just scoffed.

“Nice try,” he said. “More to the point: Augustus or Mark Anthony?”

“Don't be daft.”

“Yeah, there was something about him, wasn't there? I think it was the jawline.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes.

“Anyway, I hear your side is planning something big,” he mentioned, too casually.

“Aren't we always?”

“Tell me what it is.”

“Why should I?” Crowley offered his best snake-like smile and Aziraphale couldn't help but shiver. “It's not like we're... _friends_ or anything.”

“I saved your life back at the Thermopylae,” Aziraphale reminded him.

“You prevented me from discorporating. There's a difference.”

“You're welcome. Xerxes sends his regards.”

Crowley hissed.

*

“More wine?”

They were back at the tavern, a few days after their first encounter.

It was a lovely warm summer evening. Aziraphale was smiling and refilling Crowley's goblet with a lot of wine and very little water. Crowley was wondering why he had ever thought this particular angel a nuisance in the past.

_Unless..._

“If – hic – if I didn't know you asssss well assssss I do, _angel_ ,” Crowley slurred. Hissed? It was hard to tell sometimes. “I – hic – I'd ssssssay you were trying to get me drunk.”

Aziraphale was wearing his best poker face – even though poker was still a millennium and several centuries away from being invented.

“And what makes you think that?”

Crowley pointed at his temple.

“Sssnake ssssensessss,” he replied knowingly.

Aziraphale smiled complacently.

“Now, how about you tell me something of this great plan of yours? I'm sure it's very clever.”

Crowley drank some more and sagged back against the wall. He tried to go for clueless.

In truth, he didn't have to try very hard.

“I have no – hic – idea of what you're t-taking about.”

“Oh, come on. A big shot like you. I _know_ they tell you everything there is to know.” Aziraphale's voice was still calm, even, and mostly pleasant, but Crowley could sense a hint of irritation. Snake senses and all.

Of all things, _that_ was what made him tick.

“Y-you know what, _angel?_ ” he spat, drunkenly. “I – hic – I think you know nothing after all. 'Causssse there issss no Great Plan going on right now! A-and, and! And even if there wassss, I sssssure as Hell,” Crowley paused for a moment and contemplated the irony of bringing up Hell right there with the angel. He decided he liked it. “I sssssure as Hell wouldn't tell _you!_ There!”

“No... no plan?” Aziraphale sounded confused. “But I was told- Surely there must be- _What_ have you been doing here all this time, then?”

“Excussssse me?!” Crowley was outraged. “Who do you think issssss busssssssy corrup- curr- _winning over_ old Luciussss Annaeussss? Who whisperssssss to him every ssssingle day that yessss, material posssesssionssss are meaninglessss. B-but what about hissss lovely – hic – lovely little villa in the countryssside? Issssn't that sssssso nice?”

“Oh, I see,” Aziraphale was making an effort to appear impressed. “That is a lot of work, surely.”

“It isssssss,” Crowley agreed, moderately pacified now that his merits were finally being recognised. He drank more wine. “You know me – hic – I'm a worker. L-like that one time? I organissssse the Conspiracy of Catiline and then – boom! – I _quo usssssssque tandem_ out of there. Fasssssst. 'Next job, bosssss?' That'sssss me.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, mildly amused. “I'm sure you are great at what you do, I am. But, see, you _can't_ have organised the Conspiracy of Catiline.”

“And why isssss that?”

“Because _I_ did.”

“Did you?” Crowley furrowed his brow in confusion. “Are you ssssure?”

Aziraphale allowed himself a moderate eyeroll. Land redistribution? The end of the oligarchic power of the Senate? Some good old chaos in the Republic to mess with that old bore Cicero?

If that didn't sound like Aziraphale, pray, what did?

“Yes, I'm very sure actually.”

“Oh,” Crowley finished his wine and briefly contemplated the meaning of existence at the bottom of the empty goblet. “I-it musssst have been a different one then.”

“Whichever one it was, I'm sure it was very impressive.”

“You're damn right!” Crowley exclaimed forcefully – and fell asleep almost immediately on the tavern's table.

Aziraphale smiled and told himself he'd better get home. It was getting late.

*

When Crowley woke up from his drunken nap some three hours later, the city was on fire.

Of course, he didn't know that yet.

Crowley found himself lying in the mud in front of the backdoor of the tavern. The owner had probably tried to wake him up and, failing that, had had him thrown out before closing up the place.

His head pounded, his... _everything_ ached – particularly his left elbow which he had been using as a pillow. Also he wasn't sure if the night sky in the south was actually bright orange or if he was still really, _really_ drunk.

“Crowley? _Crowley!_ There you are. I guess Ligur was right after all. 'Look for him at the tavern,' he said. 'That's all he's good for anyway.' Well, he wasn't wrong, was he?”

“H-hastur?” Crowley could barely hear his own voice, it was so rough and scratchy. He coughed and tried again. “Hastur, what's happening? The sky-”

“You're needed. At the Circus. Flames to spread, winds to raise, _vigiles_ to misdirect. Christians to blame for the whole thing.”

“There's a _fire?!_ ”

“The Great Fire of Rome, we're calling it. Best one of the century. They didn't tell you?”

Crowley stood up slowly and painfully by leaning on the wall and made a point of brushing some of the mud off his clothes. He didn't reply.

“I mean, you kept going on about that philosopher guy you were corrupting,” Hastur reasoned. “They must of thought you were too busy!”

“Yeah,” Crowley closed his eyes and tried massaging them to get the headache to go away. It didn't work. “Yeah, they must have.”

“Well, you know _now_. And you're needed. Come on.”

Crowley turned to look at the flames brightening up the sky in the distance. They looked ominous and hungry.

“Where is the place?” he asked Hastur.

“The Circus in the Valley – for now. But we want to reach the whole city eventually.”

_The Circus in the Valley._

_Circus Maximus in Vallis Murcia._

Crowley's brain was slowed down by alcohol and sleep, so it took him a couple of seconds.

_“Plenty is happening in Vallis Murcia, actually. If you're paying enough attention, that is.”_

_Aziraphale._

“Oh God.”

Hastur looked at him like he had grown a second head. Or not. That wasn't too weird for a demon after all: they could have as many heads as they wanted.

“What did you just say?” Hastur asked, horrified.

“I have to go.”

“Yes, to the Circus. _Now!_ ”

Crowley ignored him and started looking around frantically, searching for something – anything. An idea. _Think, think, think._

The mud, the public fountain, a crushed helmet abandoned by a soldier.

He had to get out of there fast. But there was nothing...

The tavern behind him, the temple at the end of the road, and there, behind some merchant's shop, a single black mare tied up to a pole beyond a wooden fence.

_Yes._

Crowley flew more than run towards her. He didn't even register he had jumped the fence.

He undid the rope that kept the horse tied up and managed to get onto the animal by willpower alone. No saddle or reins were anywhere close, so he had to miracle them up.

“Crowley, are you mad? What on Earth do you think you're-”

“I have somewhere to be,” Crowley screamed, as the mare responded to his powers by jumping into the street, her powerful hooves missing Hastur's towering figure by mere inches. “Urgent business! Classified! Cannot wait a single second. _Ave atque vale_ , Hastur!”

And with that, they started galloping towards the Valley.

It was were he was supposed to go anyway. He just hoped he wasn't too late.

*

Of course Aziraphale could not die.

He was in a mortal _body_ , yes, but that didn't make him a mortal _being_.

Crowley was trying to be reasonable as he galloped at full speed towards the Circus. Occasionally he would lean forward to murmur words of encouragement to the mare, who was growing more and more anxious the more people they encountered, all shouting and crying and running in the opposite direction to them.

They were getting closer to the flames.

Discorporation was the worst that could happen to Aziraphale, Crowley concluded. True, it would be an especially ugly discorporation what with the fire, the smoke, the burning pain and the piercing screams.

Crowley shuddered.

That and the crushing awareness that Crowley had chosen to let him burn, while the angel had risked everything to save him back at the Thermopylae.

It wasn't Crowley's fault, though. He genuinely hadn't known about the plans for the Great Fire. It was not like he could have warned Aziraphale of the danger if he himself had been unaware of it. Also, he was a demon. It was his job description to fight celestial forces at each and every corner, right?

Crowley tried not to linger too much on why that didn't sound particularly right to him.

He had no plan for when he got to the Valley. He didn't even know where Aziraphale _lived_ , for Someone's sake!

It was just him, the horse, and that nameless, unbearable guilt. The only thing he could do was keep going.

“Hey, you! You with the black horse! Over here!”

Crowey could barely see in the distance the man who was calling out to him.

People were screaming and running and coughing, the smoke was everywhere and the sky overhead was bright orange in all directions now. Crowley thought it a near miracle he had been able to hear the man at all.

As the mare came closer, he got a better look.

Seven feet tall, muscly, barefoot. With long black hair pulled up in a knot.

_A gladiator._

The man was pulling a painted chariot with all his might with the help of a tall woman and of a single white horse. On the chariot, there was a girl with two crying children.

Crowley found out with some surprise that he was slowing down his pace.

“Quick! We need your horse! This one's not enough to pull the chariot by himself,” the gladiator shouted. “We won't get very far like this! You have to help us!”

“Sorry, I'm going to the Valley. I have a fr- someone that lives there and-”

“The Valley is in flames!” the woman who was pulling the chariot said, urgently. Crowley could barely see her behind the gladiator's back. “This person you're looking for has either already escaped or... They've probably escaped.” The woman came out to stand in front of Crowley and... _oh._ “Please, sir, these people need help, and you must- _Crowley?!_ ”

Long hair and fine features. A sweet angelic voice. But that was no woman.

“ _Aziraphale?!_ You're alive!”

Sweet relief washed over Crowley and he didn't even question it.

Aziraphale was alive. _Aziraphale was alive!_ Crowley felt like laughing and screaming and crying.

It didn't last very long.

“Yeah, not thanks to you,” Aziraphale spat back. He was fuming. “'No Great Plan' my boots! Give us your horse, Crowley, you ungrateful bastard. It's the least you could do.”

“I didn't know!” Crowley shouted back. “I found out just now and I was coming to find you and-”

“Bit late, is it?”

“I was drunk!”

“And that makes everything better... _how_ , exactly?”

“You were the one who go me drunk in the first place!”

“There's no time for this,” the gladiator said, resolutely. “Look, snake eyes: you're giving us your horse or I'm taking him from you. Your call.”

“ _Her_ ,” Crowley dismounted and told himself he was not afraid of humans – not even giant ones. He watched as the gladiator harnessed the mare to the chariot next to the white horse. “And she's not mine anyway, so.”

“Ah, great. You stole her,” Aziraphale chimed in as he got onto the white horse.

Crowley got back onto the mare, as the gladiator took his place on the chariot next to the girl and the two children. He took the reins and they started moving quickly, galloping north, away from the Valley.

Crowley sneered.

“Yes, and you own a bright red race chariot by... chance, I assume.”

“If you must know, Aléxandros and I... _borrowed_ it from the Circus so we could save Vestal Aemilia and the twins.”

Crowley looked back at the crying boys in the priestess's arms.

“Are the twins... Vestal Aemilia's?”

“And the god Mars's, yes,” Aziraphale smiled benevolently and nodded unnecessarily towards Aléxandros. “This divine progeny business is simply _booming_ these days.”

*

The fire lasted six days. Afterwards, the sight of the city was desolating.

Gray and beaten and hopeless.

Crowley couldn't bear to look at the place he'd called home for more than a century – not when it looked like that. Not when the pride and the vibrance and the excitement of life had been sucked out of it so cruelly.

He didn't bother soul searching or questioning loyalties: he just left.

Rome would bounce back one day and he'd be there to welcome her once again.

Aléxandros's race chariot survived the Great Fire intact, and he managed to trade it with an actual carriage in a _miraculously_ successful barter. Aemilia claimed it meant that the gods were looking favourably upon their little party.

(Crowley doubted it, as they had an _actual demon_ in their party after all. But a meaningful look from Aziraphale convinced him to keep his mouth shut.)

They were at the harbour when they said their goodbyes.

Aléxandros, Aemilia, and the twins were about to head north on the via Aurelia, looking for a fresh start.

Crowley had said goodbye to the black mare, now named Portia, who was to accompany the family in their journey. He was stoically suffering through Aemilia's embraces and her endless thanks for his courage and good heart (as if), when he saw Aziraphale not-so-stealthily hand over to Aléxandros a brown sack that made a very telling jingling sound.

Crowley rolled his eyes. _He never learned._

He went to look at the sea, his back to the wreckage that had been the city, and soon aferwards he felt Aziraphale come up behind him and pat him on the back.

“Looking ahead, are we?” he said a bit too jovially.

“Not much to look at behind, is there?”

“Look, I'm sorry about what I said,” Aziraphale said with a sigh. “Now I know you didn't lie to me and you actually tried to rescue me. I'd like to thank you for that. If anything, _I'm_ the ungrateful bastard. And I'm sorry it had to go this way, I can see what this city means to you and-”

“Let's say we're even and leave it at that,” Crowley said quickly. “What with the Thermopylae and all.”

“Deal,” Aziraphale said, and they shook hands. “Where are you going now?”

“Britannia, I expect. I know a captain who can take me there. There's a Roman fort up north with my name on it. It doesn't exist yet, of course, but I'm keeping an eye out for it. You?”

Aziraphale sighed.

“Here, for a while. Helping rebuild... well, you know, _everything_. And after that, who knows.”

A pause. A nod. Half a smile.

“Goodbye, angel.”

“ _Ave atque vale_... my dear.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed. Apologies for any language mistakes I might have made. I always triple-check, but you know how it is. x


End file.
